The Hollow Needle, Maurice Leblanc [fiction novels to read .TXT] 📗

morning, with his bundle under his arm, he left the inn in which he was staying near Cuzion, made for the nearest thicket, took off his workman’s clothes, became once more the young English painter that he had been and went to call on the notary at Éguzon, the largest place in the immediate neighborhood.

He said that he liked the country and that he was thinking of taking up his residence there, with his relations, if he could find a suitable house.

The notary mentioned a number of properties. Beautrelet took note of them and let fall that someone had spoken to him of the Château de l’Aiguille, on the bank of the Creuse.

“Oh, yes, but the Château de l’Aiguille, which has belonged to one of my clients for the last five years, is not for sale.”

“He lives in it, then?”

“He used to live in it, or rather his mother did. But she did not care for it; found the castle rather gloomy. So they left it last year.”

“And is no one living there at present?”

“Yes, an Italian, to whom my client let it for the summer season: Baron Anfredi.”

“Oh, Baron Anfredi! A man still young, rather grave and solemn-looking⁠—?”

“I’m sure I can’t say.⁠—My client dealt with him direct. There was no regular agreement, just a letter⁠—”

“But you know the baron?”

“No, he never leaves the castle.⁠—Sometimes, in his motor, at night, so they say. The marketing is done by an old cook, who talks to nobody. They are queer people⁠—”

“Do you think your client would consent to sell his castle?”

“I don’t think so. It’s an historic castle, built in the purest Louis XIII style. My client was very fond of it; and, unless he has changed his mind⁠—”

“Can you give me his name and address?”

“Louis Valméras, 34, Rue du Mont-Thabor.”

Beautrelet took the train for Paris at the nearest station. On the next day but one, after three fruitless calls, he at last found Louis Valméras at home. He was a man of about thirty, with a frank and pleasing face. Beautrelet saw no need to beat about the bush, stated who he was and described his efforts and the object of the step which he was now taking:

“I have good reason to believe,” he concluded, “that my father is imprisoned in the Château de l’Aiguille, doubtless in the company of other victims. And I have come to ask you what you know of your tenant, Baron Anfredi.”

“Not much. I met Baron Anfredi last winter at Monte Carlo. He had heard by accident that I was the owner of the Château de l’Aiguille and, as he wished to spend the summer in France, he made me an offer for it.”

“He is still a young man⁠—”

“Yes, with very expressive eyes, fair hair⁠—”

“And a beard?”

“Yes, ending in two points, which fall over a collar fastened at the back, like a clergyman’s. In fact, he looks a little like an English parson.”

“It’s he,” murmured Beautrelet, “it’s he, as I have seen him: it’s his exact description.”

“What! Do you think⁠—?”

“I think, I am sure that your tenant is none other than Arsène Lupin.”

The story amused Louis Valméras. He knew all the adventures of Arsène Lupin and the varying fortunes of his struggle with Beautrelet. He rubbed his hands:

“Ha, the Château de l’Aiguille will become famous!⁠—I’m sure I don’t mind, for, as a matter of fact, now that my mother no longer lives in it, I have always thought that I would get rid of it at the first opportunity. After this, I shall soon find a purchaser. Only⁠—”

“Only what?”

“I will ask you to act with the most extreme prudence and not to inform the police until you are quite sure. Can you picture the situation, supposing my tenant were not Arsène Lupin?”

Beautrelet set forth his plan. He would go alone at night; he would climb the walls; he would sleep in the park⁠—Louis Valméras stopped him at once:

“You will not climb walls of that height so easily. If you do, you will be received by two huge sheepdogs which belonged to my mother and which I left behind at the castle.”

“Pooh! A dose of poison⁠—”

“Much obliged. But suppose you escaped them. What then? How would you get into the castle? The doors are massive, the windows barred. And, even then, once you were inside, who would guide you? There are eighty rooms.”

“Yes, but that room with two windows, on the second story⁠—”

“I know it, we call it the glycine room. But how will you find it? There are three staircases and a labyrinth of passages. I can give you the clue and explain the way to you, but you would get lost just the same.”

“Come with me,” said Beautrelet, laughing.

“I can’t. I have promised to go to my mother in the South.”

Beautrelet returned to the friend with whom he was staying and began to make his preparations. But, late in the day, as he was getting ready to go, he received a visit from Valméras.

“Do you still want me?”

“Rather!”

“Well, I’m coming with you. Yes, the expedition fascinates me. I think it will be very amusing and I like being mixed up in this sort of thing.⁠—Besides, my help will be of use to you. Look, here’s something to start with.”

He held up a big key, all covered with rust and looking very old.

“What does the key open?” asked Beautrelet.

“A little postern hidden between two buttresses and left unused since centuries ago. I did not even think of pointing it out to my tenant. It opens straight on the country, just at the verge of the wood.”

Beautrelet interrupted him quickly:

“They know all about that outlet. It was obviously by this way that the man whom I followed entered the park. Come, it’s fine game and we shall win it. But, by Jupiter, we must play our cards carefully!”

Two days later, a half-famished horse dragged a gipsy caravan into Crozant. Its